


bag of bones

by mokketake



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, S5 spoilers, martins poetry is relevant in this bc why not, sad. sad, theyre mad but also madly in love, this happens between 160 and 162, yes another safehouse fic sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24099325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokketake/pseuds/mokketake
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. prologue

Jon found Martin’s poetry. It wasn’t on purpose, he swore. He had been looking for Martin all morning, to no avail. He--he needed to talk to Martin. He didn’t _want_ to, but he knew, deep inside of him, that he needed to. The shame was beginning to eat at him. He had been… Fantasizing? He wasn’t sure. The word, the feeling, the images that pervaded his mind, sneaking in through the tears at the edges of his consciousness--they were foreign. And yet, as uncomfortable as they made him, he didn’t find them _unwelcome_. He didn’t resist when he found himself thinking about how soft Martin’s curly hair might feel while shuffling through statements. He didn’t stop himself when his mind tried to map the freckles that marked Martin’s face like stars across the night sky. But no, Jonathan Sims was by no means a romantic. He just… Missed his coworker, that was all.

Anyways, the poetry. It was just… Laying there on top of Martin’s desk. Collecting dust. Practically screaming at Jon to read it. He knew it was an invasion of space, but… He’d done worse, right? He would surely do worse in the future.

Curiosity killed the cat, his grandmother had told him.

_But satisfaction brought it back,_ he had always cheekily completed.

He still believed so.

And with tender, cautious steps, Jon moved towards Martin’s desk. The lights flickered, as if sensing that he was committing some forbidden act, and the tape recorders he hadn’t even noticed had followed him into the room began to buzz loudly, thrumming against his eardrums in a way that felt more like a pleasant orchestra than a choir of chainsaws, as Martin had once described it. 

He gently picked up the stack of papers. Martin hadn’t been here in quite some time, evidently, there was a half-drunk cup of tea, cold and stagnant, and Jon could feel a layer of dust on the parchment he gripped. 

_This is wrong. This is criminal._

Something inside him tugged, though. And nauseous as he was at his own actions, his own betrayal of both his own morals and of someone he trusted, he began reading.


	2. liquid smooth

A cold wind blows through the rickety safehouse.   
_Safe._  
What an odd, arbitrary word. Liquid smooth on the mind, a jagged lie on the tongue.

Jon doesn’t need to sleep anymore, so he doesn’t. But Martin--mortal, human Martin--he does. And Jon… Jon can’t help but watch. They’re in the same bed--there’s only _one bed_ \--but watching someone sleep was such a tender, intimate thing… It felt _wrong_. It felt that same sort of wrong Jon had swallowed down with his bile all those months ago, all those statements ago--

“Jon?” Martin’s voice pierces through Jon’s thoughts, and Jon feels his heartbeat accelerate, and he knows, if he’s to keep laying here, his face so close to Martin’s, he knows he has to tell him--

“Jon, are you alright?” Martin’s smiling. “You look troubled. It’s--it’s awfully late.”

“Well, yes--no--”

Martin laughs. “Talk to me, Jon. Your eye powers don’t put you above that, do they?”

Jon takes a deep breath. “Martin, I… I suppose I owe you an apology.”

Martin props his head up on the palm of his hands. “Oh?” He’s not smiling anymore, but his eyes still shine. Jon finds himself hoping that should he ever see that light go out, he would go out with it. 

“I…” He struggles to say it. “Martin, I…” 

Jon starts laughing. It’s just so absurd. He just brought about the apocalypse, and of everything, this is weighing on him?

“It’s--it’s really not funny, Martin, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I,” he composes himself, not wiping away the tears of laughter. Or regret, or guilt. Or all of them.

Martin looks positively baffled, if not a bit concerned. It occurs to Jon that Martin has his own consciousness, too, his own emotions and thoughts. There is an entire universe swirling and swelling and _living_ under the head of curly auburn hair, behind the storm grey eyes. 

Jon sits up. 

“All those months ago, Martin. I… I read your poetry.” He blurts it out. _Tear it off, like a bandaid. Like a loose tooth tied to a doorknob._

“Jon! Those were private!” Martin doesn’t seem mad, just… Embarrassed. 

“You’re not mad?” 

“Of--of course not, Jon, you probably know them anyways with your eye powers, I just… I trusted you too much for that. I trusted you…” 

“I was--I had been looking for you, Martin. I… I wanted to talk. And I suppose I found you, just… Not how I wanted to.” Jon reaches for Martin’s cheek. 

“Did they call to you? The same way statements do?”

Jon laughs.

“No, Martin.”

“Then… Then why?”

Jon lets out an amused huff. “I don’t know. I felt absolutely awful about it the whole time, from the minute I stepped foot in your office. It took everything in me not to throw up right then and there. But I--I was desperate, Martin. I’d never rightly loved someone, and at that point, it was starting to dawn on me, and I… I had to make sure. Make sure it wasn’t just the image I had built while you were away.”

“And was it?” Martin’s voice was cold, and Jon’s breath hitched as he hesitantly met Martin’s eyes.

They were still shining. 

“No.” Jon says, his voice firm. He doesn’t waver. He won’t. Not anymore.

Martin brings his forehead to Jon’s.

And he laughs. 

“I’m sorry, Martin.”

“Don’t be.” 

Martin leans in, and Jon smiles, and Martin kisses him. And it’s everything Jon dreamed of and so, so much more. His hand finds its way to Martin’s hair, and he was right, it _was_ soft, softer than he could have ever imagined. Martin’s hand cups Jon’s cheek, and his jaw falls into the crevice of Martin’s tender grasp perfectly, like a key sliding into its lock.

Jon’s tried to forget. He’s tried to forget the fantasies, tried to bury his feelings--Jonathan Sims was not a romantic, after all--but when he’d read those poems… When he’d read of Martin’s dreams, Martin’s fantasies, mirroring his own in yearning and guilt, he knew. He knew he _loved_ Martin. He loved Martin in such a way that it broke his heart; in such a way that he could never have loved Georgie, or his grandmother, or anyone else. He loved Martin so much it ached. He would go to any lengths to protect Martin. He would part and cross the Red Sea for him. And he was going to.

He was going to, until he finally proved himself deserving of Martin’s love. Until he was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do hope you enjoyed! i wanted to play off jon finding martin's poetry and then it just sort of delved into something much more tender.


End file.
